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Today was the day of the great computer migration where we’d switch from Novell to Windows.  The migration was a failurepile inside of a sadnessbowl but the thing that really got me the fact that they took my f*%@ing network cable.  Really?  You had to take my 3′ cable and replace it with a 50′ one?  I could take the slack of my cable, kick out the window and repel to the first f*cking floor with it.  That’s re-effing-diculous.  Then, when I ask, you tell me it’s because of the migration?  I’ve met simpleton mutes who made sense than that.  How did we get the Keystone Cops of tech support to do this?  Then you tell me I can have a static IP but it’ll change periodically?  Then it’s not f*&$ing static is it! Gha….

I’d tell the story of them holding up the migration on a coworker because they didn’t know what network port on the wall he used.  There’s two, one about six inches from his computer and another that’s visible from his desk only via periscoping binoculars. Guess.

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On my way to Teejay’s after helping do buddy tags at camp, I received a call from the spouse of an august camp staffer.

Her: I’m trying to get in contact with <staffer name> and I couldn’t find the right number.
Me: This is the personal number for me.  You realize that?
Her: Yes, you’re marked for emergencies.
Me: Oh… Well, what do you need?
Her: I need to get in contact with my husband.  He left something here that he shouldn’t.
Me: (Knowing her husband has a chronic medical condition), if it’s a real emergency I can drop it off, what is it?
Her: Oh, dear no.  He just forgot clean undewear.

As the shooting sports director he should be able to rustle up something.   Although, I thought that forgetting underwear ended at the age of about 12.  Looks like there’s simply a “golden half-century of underwear recall” between 12 and 62.   Only 37 years left, myself.

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I went food shopping the other day for the first time in over a month and acquired two mules worth of food.  But with the oven broke, our options are limited.  So, I decided to play it subtle.  During unloading:

Dad: Stewwing potatoes, stew meat, chicken stock, chili mix, Crockpot Delights, and stuff for the toaster oven.  I guess I should look into getting a new bake element for the oven if I ever want to use a fork again.

GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAL!

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I have a beautiful framed lithograph of Magritte’s Son of Man which has been leaning on the wall from my desk:

Son of Man

Son of Man

A lot of people laugh at it, I’m not sure why.  The best guess I’ve heard so far was that it was a portrait of Steve Jobs.  Anyway, I wanted to mount it but could only find a finishing hammer and a small sledge.  I chose the sledge.
Bad News: The sledge beat out the plaster.
Good News: the evidence is now nicely covered by a beautiful framed lithograph of Magritte’s Son of Man.

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There are a bunch of networked drives to which each CAD person gets selective access.  Today, these permissions were done… apparently.

Tech Guy: Done, sir.  Each of your CAD workers has read/write/modify access to all drives.
Boss:  Whoa… They shouldn’t.  I sent a document outlining each person’s access.
Tech Guy:  *Checks Blackberry, sees missed message* … Well, wouldn’t you want your workers to have total access…
Boss: No.  *Hands tech 2″ binder outlining CAD permission policy*
Tech Guy: But each of these permissions’ll take 15 minutes to do, you sure you don’t want…
Boss: Now.
Tech Guy: You should learn to trust your technicians.

I’m confident that his final statement wouldn’t have made it out had my boss possessed laser vision.

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So a mass email was sent out that the building is losing its water from 4 AM to 6 AM Monday.  My coworkers started chattering about why their time was wasted with the message not realizing how this could cripple a portion of their work staff: me!  That’s the quality time where I check email and then read Wired magazine on the can.  It’s when I make ice cubes and take a really long time to wash my hands because one soap dispenser has nice soap.   It’s when I setup the office report cover slip ‘n’ slide!  Now when am I going to get a headstart on not doing anything important?

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My office has been migrating from one backend to another as we depart from our previous corporate mothership.  The transition has gone as smooth as the breakup of the British Raj in India and my boss delayed our team’s rollout a week as we’re effectively useless without both a functioning printer and web access.  We expected the tech person to arrive at 9 AM today and he rolled in around 4 PM:

Tech Guy: Sir, I’m here to do your migration.
Boss: Ok, who do you want to start on?
Tech Guy: I was told there was one system.
Boss: There is, one system consisting of 7 users using 13 computers.
Coworker: And three printers!
Coworker 2: And the big scanner!
Coworker: And our phones!

Then, like a recently potty trained child that just pooped themselves, the tech support guy let out an “uh oh” that could have been used in a Pampers commercial.   He kinda shuffled a bit and then left to “get help” which I assume gave him time to change his pants.  He came back empty handed so it looks like our office will have to wait a week to be crippled by his incompetence.

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We’ve been going through another mouse influx and after 28 tiny executions I thought we were done.  The rodent slayings slowed to a trickle with today’s coming after two days of silence among the four traps placed.  I popped open the cabinet and grabbed the trap containing the last scion of the Robinson’s mus line.  I felt bad for a minute thinking the little bastard had died alone after we picked off his family one by one terrorized by hunger after clearing out the food cabinets until I heard a rustling behind me.  I turned to a see a mouse in my dog Max’s food bowl.  He jammed a few pieces of kibble into his mouth and jumped back through a hole in the kick space.

Until I find a way to have Max eat around a mousetrap it appears I’m limited to killing the dumb ones.  War is hell.

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So, after my 17 hour marathon rest I was moving stuff into the attic when my  brother came over.  He asked me about splitting a Father’s Day gift with him, I asked the cost, he told me and I told him where my wallet was to get the cash.  Later that day my dad came back and gave me a big hug thanking me for the Father’s Day gift.  Trying not to make it obvious that I had no idea what he got and knowing my brother’s penchant for firearms-as-gift I asked “What caliber is it?” He replied “.357 and that he’d “keep it under his pillow”.  Scanning over my knowledge of killings in the home and the strength of my father’s prescription glasses I realized Ryan had gotten my dad the greatest gift of all: Fratricide.

Editor’s Note: The technical term for killing one’s son would be filicide but it both sounds worse than fratricide and is a bit more remote from common parlance.  I hope it sufficiently conveyed the sense of terror at my father being armed while in a hynogogic state.